“Of course I do, Mariam. Raimond may not be the soldier that Richard is—how many men are? But he leads his men into battle, risking his life with theirs. No, the problem is that Raimond always sees war as the last resort, even when that is not so.”
Joanna’s backache was getting worse, and she shifted her position before continuing. “I’ve been giving it some thought, Mariam, and I’ve realized that Richard and Raimond have more in common than I’d first thought. They both share the same vice, if it can be called that: an overabundance of confidence. They differ only in their choice of weapons. Richard is convinced that he is invincible with a sword in his hand. And Raimond is just as sure that he can talk anyone around to his point of view if he has the chance to do so.”
“I had not thought of it that way. I think you might well be right.”
“I know I am. I’d be the last woman in Christendom to dismiss the potent power of Raimond’s charm. But charm does not work well with princes of the Church or disgruntled, disloyal vassals, and I’ve been unable to make Raimond see that. In truth, he shares another trait with Richard that I wish he did not. Neither one has any interest in bearbaiting, but they both enjoy baiting their enemies. Raimond jokes that I see it as my wifely duty to keep him off the road to Hell, and he is not far wrong about that. Our lives would be so much more peaceful if only I could get him to understand that churchmen ought not to be publicly mocked, even when they deserve it, and not all rebels are worthy of his mercy.”
“Is this why you are so set upon seeing Richard?”
Joanna nodded. “I am hoping that he’ll heed Richard as he’s not heeded me. It is easy enough for him to dismiss my opinions about rebellions. But if Richard tells him that a ruler needs to be feared as well as respected, he might well listen. I do not expect him to adorn the roads of Toulouse with the rotting heads of treacherous lords and outlaws. He just needs to understand that there are times when forbearance only encourages further defiance.”
Mariam was relieved to know that Joanna’s mission had her husband’s grudging consent. But now that they were finally able to speak freely again, she meant to take advantage of the opportunity. “When we get to Poitiers, Joanna, I think we ought to summon a physician. It is obvious to me that you are ailing.”
“I am not ill, Mariam.” Joanna paused before saying reluctantly, “I am with child.”
Mariam stared at her. “Why did you not tell me?”
“Even Raimond does not know yet. I was not sure myself when we left Toulouse. I’d missed my March flux, but one miss does not mean all that much. But I ought to have had my April flux a fortnight ago and it did not come. I’ve also begun to feel queasy in the past few days. It may be why I am so tired, too. I never felt so bone-weary with the other pregnancies, though.”
Mariam knew she had an expressive face and she could only hope that her misgivings did not show too nakedly. She sensed that Joanna had some ambivalence, too. Not too many women would have welcomed three pregnancies in three years. She did not doubt that this was why Joanna was so exhausted; her body had not had time to recover. Well, now that she knew, she meant to make this pregnancy as easy for Joanna as she could, whether Joanna liked being fussed over or not. “I think that when we get to Poitiers, we ought to take one of the palace horse litters. That is bound to be more comfortable for you than riding Ginger.” She was pleased when Joanna did not protest, but surprised, too, which confirmed her suspicions that Joanna was not feeling well at all.
While Roger had allowed his knights to dismount and stretch and go into the bushes to relieve themselves if needed, he’d kept several on watch, and one of them now yelled, “Riders coming!” The warning stirred up a flurry of activity, for the roads were not always safe, not even for those as well armed as Joanna’s escort. She let Mariam assist her to her feet, sorry their respite had been so brief. By now the men had relaxed, for the lead rider was one of their own, Sir Alain de Muret, the knight Roger had sent on ahead to Poitiers.
Joanna soon recognized the man riding at Alain’s side. “That is Maurice de Blaron,” she told Mariam. “As Bishop of Nantes, he accompanied Constance when she came to meet Richard at Caen a few years ago. I’d heard that he’d been elected recently as Bishop of Poitiers, but I did not expect him to ride out like this to bid me welcome.” Turning so Mariam could brush off her skirts, she smiled over her shoulder. “I must remember to tell Raimond that not all churchmen are hostile to the Count of Toulouse.”